


the world will never ever be the same (and you're to blame)

by ThePsuedonym



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Apathetic character I guess, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Female Tony Stark, Forced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: Surreal. That’s what it is, it’s surreal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still bitter because of Civil War. And then I saw Infinity War today and now I'm plain mad. So I did this.
> 
> Idea is from Dewsparkles' [comment](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/112970013) on Abort Mission by silver_drip.
> 
> Title is from Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's.

Surreal. That’s what it is, it’s surreal.

She feels like she’s swimming underwater: the doctor’s voice sounds like it’s coming from so, so far away, almost muffled beyond recognition. She feels suspended, in free fall, waiting for the grand impact rushing up from below to hit her, to crush her flat and break all her bones. The ends of her fingers and toes are numb but the skin up and down her arms prickles slightly in the wash of cool air exhaled by the vents peeking out from the ceiling.

She catches his final words, “I’m sorry,” as he leaves, but they’re just more meaningless platitudes now. All the apologies and regrets in the world can’t change what’s already happened and he’s not at fault, anyways, even as the door clicks and shuts behind him and finally leaves her alone.

All alone, with only her thoughts and regrets and the hospital tech to accompany her.

It’s a bad idea, it’s always a bad idea when it’s hers, but she ignores the self-recrimination and rolls over onto her side anyways, ignores the sting of the needles in her arms as they shift and pull. Absently she traces the outlines of bandages underneath her hospital gown; if she were to lift it up she would see the thick swathes of snowy white, her own bruised and battered skin only visible in tiny patches between. (and if she pulled that off, would she see the violets and greens and blues of the bruises left behind? the irritated crimson incision where they cut into her to save her from her own lost cause?) Cheap cotton and polyesters scratches against the rough weaves of the wrappings that are doing a better job of holding her together than she ever had.

Though, to her credit, she hasn’t broken down crying yet. Even if that has more to do with the overwhelming numbness and sheer exhaustion washing over her than any great strength of will on her part.

Everything, absolutely _everything_ she has ever cherished has been hurt or taken away from her. _Because_ of her. Yinsen, who sacrificed himself for her sake; Happy, put into a coma by Killian’s henchmen; Pepper, injected with Extremis; Jarvis, murdered by Ultron; Rhodey, paralyzed from the waist down, probably for the rest of his life. Hell, even Obie, dead by her own hand.

And now all of _this_. She has lost the Avengers because of differences in their ideologies. She has lost her lover because he cared more for a dead man walking than he did for her. She has lost her own _child_ because of new lies and old scars and the long buried, unresolved grief over her parents’ deaths.

She doesn’t even bother analyzing that last thought any further. Because never mind that she’s far too old to safely, healthily carry a child; never mind that the palladium poisoning should have rendered her sterile; never mind the internal conflict raging inside her at the thought of raising and caring for a child and the intense fear of emulating her father (or worse, even) that burns within her like a never-ending wellspring of self-doubt.

Because if anyone could work a miracle with nothing more than goodwill and a wholesome, by-golly-gosh-would-you-look-at-that smile, it’d be St— _Rogers_.

None of it matters now because he’s now gone, she’s alone here and their unborn child is dead.

And she can’t even muster the strength to cry over it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional chapter for starvinbohemian and mangacrack, since they asked for more. I'm not as happy with this chapter because it's more open-ended than the first... But that just leaves me more room to work with when Infinity War Pt. 2 comes out, right? Right?

Waking up on the ratty old couch had been unexpected; she hadn’t remembered falling asleep. As her thoughts were wont to do without something occupying her head _and_ her hands, they turned wistful, nostalgic even. It was strange to think that, once upon a time long, long ago, life was much simpler.

Maybe not _better_ by any stretch of the definition, but… simpler. When she still had a lover who (she hoped; she feared) had cared for her. When she hadn’t looked up at the stars and felt her blood freezing to ice in her veins, seen an army so vast it could consume the entire Earth and still starve. When the device saving her life wasn’t killing her, when the armor wasn’t her own personal miracle and _deus ex machina_ , when Afghanistan was just another country and she hadn’t ever experienced open-heart surgery in a cave.

It wasn’t better – she wouldn’t, couldn’t give up the armor for anything; and Obie— _Stane_ had been selling weapons under the table, which, _no_ – but it had been easier to laugh and love, to learn and build and create without the specters of the dead or not-so-dearly-departed hovering over her shoulder. Casting silent judgement and finding her _wanting_.

Back then she still had a future. A chance. Now she was silently cursing her body for its traitorous weakness (where had the years gone? she had her whole future ahead of her once, now it was slipping away like the desert sand beneath her feet). There was still so much to do and not enough time to do it in. The years pressed down on her now in a way it hadn’t since… since that fucked up birthday party, when she’d nearly killed herself just to prove a point. So everyone else would think she was absolutely fine, so no one would be hurt when she died.

Gently, gently rolling off the side of the sofa she stumbled to her feet and pressed a careful hand to her stomach. The incisions were still healing, still held together with bandages and gauze and (not for the first time not for the last) she had the absurd urge to rip them off, to see the damage the doctors ( _Rogers_ ) had inflicted upon her body. To put an image to the internal emptiness that now continually yawned within her body, like she had instinctively known that something had been growing inside her but unable to consciously acknowledge its presence until it was gone.

(sometimes she wonders if she was just a placeholder for something greater; sometimes she even wishes that were true)

Gingerly she sat at her workbench and pulled the braces she had been building closer to her. The injury Rhodey had taken during the fight at Leipzig/Halle Airport hadn’t been fatal, luckily enough (hadn’t she lost enough precious people already?) but it was still her fault he couldn’t walk even if she hadn’t been the one to take the shot. The least she could do for him, to make up for the immeasurable loss was to help him walk again, to try and prove that his injury hadn’t been for nothing.

If she had tried harder—

If she had just—

If only—

Violently she shoved the thoughts aside and put all of her focus on the braces instead. She hadn’t been good enough for the others, maybe, but this was something she knew. What she could do was help Rhodey to walk again – maybe even unassisted, one day – but worrying about her worth to the people wasn’t helping at all. Better to ignore it, for now; wallowing in her guilt and planning for their inevitable return could wait until her oldest friend could stand again.

None of this was about her. It never had been.


End file.
